One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Night #1.

I am driving in my car, wind cold, beer colder. I am resisting nothing; fear, love, telephone poles. I am driving smoothly, like hands on top of skin or a knife through meat, freshly sharpened (the knife or the meat?). I am driving away (towards?) something. All things are true: metaphorically, spirituality, blah blah blah.

Dichotomies are covalent atoms, simease twins, Abbot and Costello.

Glint of gun metal. Shift of steel. Engine hits 80 because its a nice round number, like the age you're going to die.

I've seen the flashing headlights of the coroner's car, arriving at your scene. (Why did they send headlights to such a routine suburban death) I wonder.

In the midwest, everything dies normally. Even catasrophic failures of safety equipment that cause multiple death and dismemberment to combine workers are ranked as "no special incident" in the police reports. Your smiling head on the side of the road will pose no exception to this rule.

At least you'll like you meant to do it, I think as I drive by.